


Fiery

by RunRabbitRun



Series: Tales from the Cradle [1]
Category: Thief the Dark Project, Thief: Deadly Shadows
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Backstory, Gen, Insanity, Mental Institutions, Minor Character(s), POV Minor Character, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:16:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunRabbitRun/pseuds/RunRabbitRun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King No One, the former madman extraordinaire of the Shalebridge Cradle, holds forth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fiery

**Author's Note:**

> Man, I wrote this thing ages and ages ago (2006, yikes). There's a lot wrong with it, but it (along with it's sister fics The Warped Viktrola and The Swarm) holds a special place in my creepy little heart all the same.
> 
> Naturally, a lot of this is non-canonical, but it's all built from clues found around the Cradle and my own research into early psychiatric hospitals and mental disorders.

I’m sensing a motif.

Fire has always been a part of my life, whether I wanted it to be or not. My father’s name, Edan, the same name that he gave to me means ‘fiery’ in the tongue of the northmen. I don’t answer to that name anymore. It died along with the old bastard. I saw it go up in smoke when I put the torch to the house. I never said my career started with any class, you know.

I want to get the story completely straight before I go. I know I’m going. To where? I don’t know. All I do know is that Sullivan was right about the dreams. Cordelia disappeared from our ranks weeks ago, locking herself in her cell as she did. Gourmet refuses to leave the meal hall area, and Sullivan is spending more time in the Morgue than is healthy. It might be madness, sickness, or something else entirely. All I know is it isn’t good, and it’s happening to all of us. But forgive me, I digress. I was telling you about what happened to me before...

I have seen my ‘case study’, and they say some sort of past trauma or abuse on the part of my parents probably caused my ‘condition’. This is chicken shit, for lack of a better term. My mother died of an infection when I was very young, and she was survived by Edan Poshtoll Senior and his quiet, scrawny son; Edan Poshtoll Junior. My father, and me that is. My father was deeply damaged by her death, and as I understand it, he was a completely different man while she was alive. When she died, he became listless and his interest in his work became the mere shadow of what is once was. He never raised a hand to me, though in some cases he had more than a good reason to (I said I was quiet, not boring.) I knew I was… different from the other children in the village. They were perfectly content in the knowledge that they would be a butcher, or weaver, or blacksmith, like their father, and their father’s fathers, and on and on and on. My father was a farmer; he raised geese, pheasants, chickens, and other foul tempered birds. Therefore, I would inherit the farm when he died, marry some woman from the village, father a passel of snot-nosed brats, and then die among the well-earned affects of a mediocre life. I couldn’t stand the idea of staying in the village. If one stood on a hill on a clear morning and looked East, they could see the City, looming like a beast or a thunderhead, ever-growing and all-devouring. It was huge, even then, and my little hometown seemed pale and paltry in comparison. I had always known that dark view, even as a small child, but it wasn’t until adolescence that I began to long for it.

My mother, so I was told, was an educated woman from the South, and I had no reason to disbelieve it. There was a small collection of books in the attic, mostly poems and faerie stories, as well as a battered book of Maps and histories. My father knew his letters and figures well enough to keep track of our finances, but was otherwise illiterate. So was I, for most of my childhood. It wasn’t until I was ten that I began to peek at my father’s ledger, trying to decipher the scratchy symbols. The numbers I learned easily, but the letters perplexed and fascinated me. Through asking my father and a lot of guesswork, I learned. My first word, not surprisingly, was ‘hen’. I devoured my mother’s books in secret, as my father couldn’t abide seeing anything that had belonged to her. There was also the Chapel.

I was raised Hammerite, though some mayn’t believe it. Everyone in the village was lip-service Hammerite. They went to weekly masses and got on with their secular lives. My father was far from utterly devout, but he went to services every Wednesday and I was obliged to tag along, just like everyone else. Only a very few people in the village could actually read, so there was only a handful of well-worn copies of the Scripture and hymns. I burned through these books and quickly grew bored of rereading them, trying to ignore the high-pitched drone of the minister. I was desperate. My chores at home were hardly enthralling, and I detested the company of other children, even at that early age. Reading was my only escape, but it had run out. Driven by this need (or an ‘inclination towards criminality’, as the doctors call it), I sought out relief.

The minister often read from “The Letters of the Smith in Exile”. Whenever he did, I was enthralled, not by the dogma and moral dictation, but by the poetic sweep of the words, like a brightly feathered bird. I didn’t understand the deep meanings of many of the passages, but I didn’t care. The words were enough… and yet they were not enough. I can’t recall ever wanting something so much as I wanted that book. True, could have just asked the minister to let me read it, but I wanted to hold it and know that it was mine. So, while my father prayed half-heartedly for prosperity and for my mother’s soul, I wracked my brains furiously for some way to get my hands on that book. I watched the minister like a hawk, waiting for an opening. Then, like the sun coming up over the hills, it dawned on me. The minister stored the book in a small cabinet under the pulpit, along with the holy water and hymnals. Naturally, I could never get it during services, so I slipped away from my father as we were leaving the church and hid myself in the confessional. When my father came looking for me, I almost stopped breathing, but after a few moment’s searching, he left, muttering that I must have already headed home. Idiot.

I waited, peeking around the soft, blue curtain that concealed me. Sure enough, a resident acolyte entered and put the book away in its cabinet. When he produced a key from somewhere in his robe, I swore under my breath. I should have known they would lock it up! But then, my luck changed. The minister’s voice sounded an antechamber, and the acolyte set the key down on the pulpit and left the chapel. Legs shaking violently, I bolted from the confessional, dove behind the pulpit, flung open the cabinet doors, seized the book, and ran as if my life depended on it. I ran until my heart hurt and my knees felt like water, clutching my prize so tightly I lost feeling in the tips of my fingers. Our farm was a good mile and a half from town, but I sprinted the whole way. When I reached home, I raced for the barn and clambered up to the loft. I crouched in the musky, old hay, sure as hell that I had been spotted by the acolyte or my father or someone. I strained my ears for a sound, someone calling my name, or an accusation, a cry of ‘thief!’… But none came. I had gotten away with it.

Finally, I relaxed and sat down in the hay, and admired the book. The red leather binding was warped and falling apart, and the gilded edges had faded to a dull beige, but to my farmer’s-child-eyes, it was beautiful. I opened it in the middle, and ran my hand down the page, feeling the cool paper warm under my fingers, the discolored calligraphy entrancing me. I stayed for as long as I dared, but I knew my father would be looking for me. I dug a little niche in the hay and placed the book there like it would crumble to ashes with one wrong tap.

“Edan! Edan, I’ve had enough of this! I don’t have time for this!” I heard my father calling from the house. I hastily covered the book with hay, and scrambled down the ladder.

“Coming!” I yelled, hoping my father wouldn’t detect the way my voice shook slightly.

“Edan!” my father slid open the barn door and stood watching me with puzzled eyes. “Edan, why did you run off after church? We have to finish cleaning out the coops today. We don’t have time for any games.”

“I know, I’m sorry”, I mumbled, trying to look like a proper penitent.

“It’s alright, just don’t do it again.” My father snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose. He turned and walked in his long-legged stride towards the house, knowing I would follow. “Why were you in the loft? I’ve told you it’s not safe, the wood is too old to hold much weight.”

“I was sleeping.” I lied quickly. He turned and looked me.

“You were sleeping?”

“Yes.” I didn’t avert my eyes, but my mind was in turmoil. I thought somehow he knew what I had done, despite all logic.

“You needed to sleep this early in the day? Are you feeling sick?” His pale eyes swiftly looked me over, and he made to put a hand to my forehead. I ducked out of the way.

“I’m fine, I was just a little tired, that’s all” I whined. My father scrutinized me for a moment more and I repressed a nervous twitch. He knows, somehow, some way, he knows I took it!

“Hm. Alright, but if you start feeling ill, you come tell me right away, you understand?”

“Yessir.”

“Good. And don’t run off again. Now, c’mon. We have work to do.” He turned on his heel and continued on to the house with me following behind, inwardly gleeful. I couldn’t believe it. I had gotten away with it!

I had started on what some people call ‘a downward slope’. I called it a hobby. When word got out that the book was missing, I kept my head down and acted as surprised as anyone else. I was very nervous for a while, but then it occurred to me; I was below suspicion. I was the strange, skinny son of the local failing farmer. I was hardly noticed as it was, why would anyone care to suspect me of anything? Not even my own father, who had a reason think twice about it, took note of anything. So, who was I to waste such an advantage? Soon, it wasn’t just the “Smith’s Letters” that went missing, but a couple of hymnals as well. These were soon followed by the blacksmith’s notebook and several of the apothecary’s almanacs. My little stash in the loft grew steadily, and I was sneaking away almost every night to read. However, my plan wasn’t altogether flawless. Despite the fact that no one suspected me of stealing, my father began to notice that I was tired and pale in the mornings. Galvanized by memories of my mother’s illness and eventual death, my father cornered me one night and interrogated me about my health. I barely talked my way around his questions, but from then on he watched me much more closely than he did before. It was then that I knew I had pushed my luck. I continued to read at night, but no more books went missing.

Such was my life. I worked for my father, I read in the loft at night, and I went to church. After a few years, I wasn’t a sullen boy anymore; I was a sullen boy on the verge of becoming what was considered an adult. Around me, things were changing and yet staying exactly the same, as is the way with the little villages. The young men my age were learning the trades of their fathers and looking to start families. The girls were being groomed for marriage and motherhood. I stood on the sidelines with thinly masked disgust at the whole charade. I wanted no part in it, but life seemed to be thrusting such a fate upon me. My father began to receive visitors; men and women from the village with daughters my age, looking to get a hook into a piece of valuable farmland through the only legitimate means they could think of. Out of fear, I rebelled violently. I fought with my father, avoided the villagers almost completely, and I stopped going to church. Soon enough, the visits stopped, only to be replaced by visits from the Minister. I sat through more lectures than I can think of. Eventually, my apathy won out over the Minister’s hellfire and brimstone and I was left alone at last.

For a time, I allowed myself to fall into the easy pattern of a solitary life. My father and I hardly spoke, and I spent the day doing my chores as quickly as possible, so that I could escape to my books or into the nearby woods for the remainder of the afternoon. But one night, everything changed… when all is said and done, I will remember and know that that night was the beginning of everything I put down here.

Edan Senior was the weakest man I have ever known, and I hated him for it. We went hungry many times because he let us, because he didn’t have the wits to defend himself or his business. He gave in to the bottle and would often end up weeping by the hearth, calling for my mother. When I was young, I felt sympathy for him. I too missed the mother I could only barely remember. However, as I grew older and began to resemble more and more the woman who bore me into this world, my father got worse. A cold disgust began to form in my gut as we went without food time and time again because of his vices. By the time I was fifteen I could hardly stand him. But still, I lived with my hate as I lived with my father. It had become a fact of life; snow is cold, the sky is blue, and I hate my father and I can’t wait for him to die. It wasn’t until that night, when my father finally gave in to himself that I turned loose all the ire that had been building up inside me years.

I suppose I should say it was a ‘dark and stormy night’, seeing as it was, but that makes the whole thing sound like some penny dreadful rag one would find in a nobleman’s bookshop. It was a hot and humid summer that year, and as Doctor Hanscombe would say, the ‘emotive humors’ the swelter created did not bode well. That night, dark, pendulous clouds hung overhead, enticing the senses with the thought of cool rain, but giving none. The clouds were growling and flashing, shot through with the vibrant red of the sinking sun. The crimson light bled out over the land, soaking the green summer landscape with bloody reds and burning golds. Not wanting to get caught in a sudden storm, I jogged across the yard, scattering a flock of noisy white ducks, stained scarlet and yellow from the light, as I went.

As I entered the house, I immediately noticed the heat. It was sweltering outside, but stepping into the house was stepping into an oven. Confused, I wiped my brow and looked at my father, who was bent over the hearth, feeding fuel into the fire. I noticed the empty bottle laying on its side near the hearth and deduced that my father had had too much wine and was trying to roast us both from the heat. I was about to roll my eyes and head upstairs when I noticed the peculiar shapes of the fuel he was putting into the flames.

He was burning my mother’s books.

With a yell, I ran at him and wrenched the book of faerie tales out of his arms. To my horror, I could already see the rest of her books smoldering in amongst the logs, their burnt pages fluttering like painful spasms, their words lost forever. Stooping quickly, I took hold of the empty bottle and struck him across his stunned face. He went down like a stone in water. I stared for a minute at his limp form, still with his mouth agape. Slowly, mechanically, I took a long piece of kindling from where it lay in the woodpile at the side of the hearth. I stuck the end of it in the fire until I had a sort of torch. Still in a trace-like state, I walked outside, still clutching the book and put my torch to the thatched lean-to. Then I set the window and doorframe alight. The house was old, very old. The wood of its walls and its thatched roof and long gone dry. The place was blazing in minutes. I watched from the safety of the beck near the house as the roof collapsed, its weight pulling the walls down until the house lay in a smoldering heap, sending a spiral of black smoke towards the flashing, red-black clouds. I watched from the woods as a few curious villagers came to examine the sight. A few women wiped their tears away. I heard someone say

“No one can find the son. D’you think…?”

“Then they both…”

“The poor boy. He was so young. Only just seventeen, I think…”

I watched and waited from my hiding place, my fingers like iron bars around my mother’s book. I was dead, at least to these people. I was a dead man… and I was free. I waited from night to fall and for the villagers to clear out, taking the ducks and chickens with them, along with whatever they could selvage from the barn, before I finally left my hiding place. I remembered that my father kept a few coins buried under the apple tree in the yard. Kicking aside smoldering wreckage as I did, I hurriedly crossed the yard and began to dig with my bare hands. I found six or seven silver guilders in a bag. Not much, enough to buy a few loaves of bread or a single night at an inn

Let me tell you something about killing. The good doctors have it all wrong when they say I have no consideration for the lives of others. I have the greatest respect for life, and that respect was born from that first kill. Life is a powerful force, and wholly different than anything else in the world. When one says ‘What is life?’ a doctor would probably tell you of blood and veins and the hearts and lungs and biles and humors. They are not wrong, but they are scarcely scratching the surface. One could ask, ‘What makes life?’ An answer would be the different occurrences in the body make life, but what fuels those occurrences? What is the engine that makes the most primitive of functions happen? I tell you it is the Life Force, or the Soul if you will. That invisible spark of will. There is nothing more intoxicating than know you have snuffed that all-powerful force. It is a rush of the senses alien from other sensations. No drink or drug or mate can replicate it. What makes it even better is knowing that you have rid the world of one who wasn’t worthy of the Life Force. Edan Poshtoll Senior was not worthy of it. He didn’t have enough gall to even defend his own life, let alone that of his son. He was a loose cog.

And I? I was dead. Edan Poshtoll Jr. was no more. Everything I owned, save for the book and the clothes on my back, was gone. The property that was rightfully mine would probably be seized by the magistrate and then auctioned off. I didn’t have enough money to survive for more than a week.

And I was happy. I was free. And I knew what I wanted to do.

That is how it began. The walk to the City took all night and most of the morning. I made quick work of finding myself a tiny room near the ramparts in the Docks with a promise of more money as soon as I could find work. The Landlady believed me, God knows why. Heaven knows I didn’t look trustworthy, underfed, sooty, and reeking of smoke as I was. I suppose one could say it was serendipity, but it’s not important. I found work as a Stevedore. I worked, socialized little, and was nearly overcome by paranoia. Every shadow was a City Watch Officer come to arrest me for murder, every cry on the street was an accusation. Though no such charge ever came, wariness seethed beneath my skin like hot coals. It wasn’t until months later, when two events occurred, spurring me to become who I am now.

The first event… It was so very innocuous. It could have happened to anyone and they would have shaken it off as nothing. I had taken to wearing a hood almost everywhere, to hide my face. It had been no trouble during the colder seasons, but summer was returning with a promise of being even hotter then the last, and a hood was becoming cumbersome and uncomfortable. Still, I didn’t dare abandon my only means of concealment and security. That is until one night. It had been a completely uneventful day, and I was heating a thin broth for my supper over the wood stove. I had a few tallow candles lit, and one ill turn knocked a particularly fat one off the crate that served as my table. The flame went out as soon as the candle hit the floor, but the hot wax spilled in an arc that splattered the floor and the back of my left hand. I hissed in pain and blew on the burning splotch when I noticed the particular way the wax looked on my flesh. It dried a to a smooth, translucent, bisque color. I flexed my hand, and the wax cracked. I peeled it off my now red and stinging skin, my brain whirring with ideas. Wax was so very much like skin, at least at first glance. Perhaps I could use that to my advantage. It would not be so very difficult to carve a mold of a face, and make a mask out of wax. The new Gaslights that had been installed created many forgiving shadows and flickers, and when on the street no one would look close enough to notice the peculiar smoothness of the face of one in a crowd of fifty or more.

Over the next few days, I experimented and began to craft my first masks. At night I wore a false nose or ear on the street to see if anyone noticed. They didn’t. The first masks I made were crude and uneven, but I quickly learned how the smooth and mold the wax under careful fingertips. When I worked at loading and unloading ships, I had no fear, and wouldn’t have been able to pull off wearing a mask there anyway. The other men knew my face and would suspect if someone of my build and physiology showed up with a strange new face. Also, I worked mainly during the dim, early morning hours, so I felt safe. The masks gave me a new found freedom that I relished like a starving man would a hearty meal. I was able to wander the City as I pleased, even going into taverns and shops if I kept more or less to the shadows. I had always loved watching people, and now I was free to do so.

The other event was not so simple. You see, though my life had settled more or less into a conventional pattern, I had never forgotten that night of the fire, and the high of taking a life. How could such a thing be forgotten? True, almost a full year had passed, but the feeling ran strong in my blood. I wanted badly to do it again, though not with fire. Fire was uncontrollably destructive and rather raw to me. I wanted to see death. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to look into death’s eyes and hear the last beatings of a doomed heart and the last gasp cut the air. I had become less like the fire in my name and more like a shadow or smoke. I was a no one, and I liked it. Still, as any other young man, there was a distinction I craved. I saw foulness and injustice on the street everyday, and it seared my mind. The injustices… were not what would bother a ‘normal’ person. I saw the same vice and proclivities that I saw in my father, and it sickened me to the core. A fellow stevedore spent his day leering at the girls that worked in the tavern on the docks. A woman listened not a whit to anyone who spoke to her, and yet jabbered endlessly about her clothes, her hair, and her jewels. A wealthy young man got his kicks stealing from those who had nothing and laughed in their faces when they called him a thief. These and more grated heavily on my nerves. I am a perfectionist, if nothing else. I grit my teeth and tried to hold back the tide of vicious impulses that were becoming more and more frequent. It was the twenty-eighth of August in my eighteenth year that the dam broke.

That very young man, the thieving one, was harassing a bar maid at a tavern I frequented. He had snatched the copper comb right from her hair and was denying her charges, saying that no one of her standing could afford nor deserve such a trinket. The entire room could hear his taunts and her increasingly tearful cries, but no one did anything. They were too buried in their own troubles and drinks or they didn’t dare take on the son of a wealthy and powerful warden, they sat still and ignored the conflict. I tried to ignore the quickly growing disgust and hatred building in my mind, but eventually I left my seat near the back and slipped out the door. I waited for him to come out the front and pass through the alley opposite the tavern. He did, and I followed. Thankfully for me, he was alone (serendipity yet again?) When he stopped to admire the comb he had acquired I made a grab for his long golden hair. He fell to the ground with a cry, and I pulled my small dull pocketknife from my belt. While he could still speak, he called me a few pretty names as I cut him to ribbons. But as I sat there smelling his blood on the air and admiring my craftsmanship I thought it didn’t matter if he called me a whoreson or whatever else. He was dead and I wasn’t. I killed him.

I killed a few, two or three more perhaps, in this fashion, but the use of a knife began to bore me. I thirsted for something new. These deaths were over quickly. I felt little connection with those that I killed. The blood (there was always a lot of the stuff) never meant much to me, neither did the pain, really. Blood and pain are open books; too easy to understand. I wanted something more complex, more lasting. It was then that I remembered the tallow candle. When the wax splashed my hand, it had had time to cool in midair before it struck me, and still I had a red mark and blisters for days afterward. From this I developed a style I liked. By day I was a boring, unnoticeable stevedore. But night I wore my masks and became something above the mindless crowd. I began carrying two or three masks with me, switching them, becoming someone else with each new face. The papers began to call me Tallow Man. Posters began to show up on the streets, advertising my head (a hulking, sinister shadow, as they represented me) at a price of 500, then 1000, then 5000 golden Gilders. I was alive and in love with my senses. I no longer killed only the vice ridden. That narrowed my hunting ground. I spread out from the Docks to South Quarter, thence to Stonemarket, and then Auldale. Auldale, full of the pampered and the privileged, was my favorite place to hunt. I liked to watch those who were so refined squirm and gasp, their vocal cords expertly stifled, as I dripped the molten tallow in interesting patterns on their faces, reveling the control I had over them and their pitiful little lives. I even began to take trophies of my kill. In retrospect, this was the most idiotic thing I have ever done, but at the moment, I neither noticed nor cared. It was power over those who were supposedly above me. In every face I saw not a person, but a festering wound that the Life Force needed to be cured of. I was drunk with power, and it lasted for seven whole years.

\---

I was twenty-five, and I was learning discretion. I was still renting the room in the Docks, but the City Watch had been swarming the district lately and I decided it was probably a good time to move. I found a place in Stonemarket, and managed to find work as a shipping manager. As I think about it now, it almost makes me laugh. The sinister Tallow Man tries to scrape enough cash together for a down payment! Terrifying! Watch as the prolific killer checks the inventory! How ghastly! What can I say? I have a talent for balancing the mundane with the murderous.

Unfortunately for me, the apartment I was renting would not be available to me for a couple of nights because of some repair work. I was annoyed, but mentally listed all the reasons why it wasn’t a good idea to kill one’s new landlord. So I took a room at the nearby Gray Mare Inn. It was here, through my own foolishness that I met with my first downfall. As I said earlier, I had begun to take trophies of my kills, particularly from my Auldale kills. Tiny things, really. A handkerchief or a ring. Things that wouldn’t be noticed, so I thought.

No one was quite sure where the fire started, but it spread quickly. The few weeks after the fire would be a blur to me, but I remember that night so clearly… I remember the pain. I was wearing one of my wax masks when my ground-floor room was set alight, and in my panic I didn’t notice when the wax started to soften, to bubble, and to melt. The searing started near my left ear, and expanded to my cheek and close to my eyes. I tore at the wax with my hands, not realizing that my flesh was melting as well. I managed to grab hold of my dagger and smash the window with the hilt. I leapt out howling, slashing at anyone who got too close. By this time, a crowd had gathered outside the blazing inn, and where there are crowds, there is the Watch. Three of them came at me, trying to calm me, catch me, anything would have done. I managed to cut one of them across the arm before a fell, clutching my burning face, wax and skin sticking to my hands before I feel to the ground, unconscious.

I awoke in a cell. Now, these details have never been made clear to me, but I am to understand the watch searched me for any form of identification, and found a silver signet ring belonging to the late Lord Fitzwilliam, who had been recently murdered by the Tallow Man. They searched what was left of my belongings after the fire died down and found other incriminating things. I had been snared by my own mistakes. Fire and serendipity has pushed their way into my life once again. Had I been in good health, perhaps I could have escaped my prison, but in the end I had burns over a large area of my left cheek and ear, a bit of my forehead was gone, and a patch under my right eye. There was a smattering of singes up and down my left arm and shoulder, and well as on my neck, where the hot wax had trickled down off of my face. The burns on my arm became infected and I was raving with fever by the time a doctor was brought in to see to me. I was treated for my burns and declared unfit to stand trial in one morning.

The hazy memories over the next couple of weeks consist of little but darkness around me and a cold stone floor beneath me. I remember spending days in a cage in strange room. I was held down and bitter liquids were forced down my throat. Two women came and gawked at me. In and out of fevered reams, I cursed myself for being so stupid. It wasn’t the fire or the Watch or whatever God ruled this world that had done this to me. I had done this to me. It was my fault. When two burly orderlies hustled out of my cage and upstairs for the first time, I was like a nocturnal animal brought suddenly into the light. Not warm sunlight, but the sterile, cold light of the new Electric bulb. I was brought to a strange place. I remember reading a sign on the wall. White Hall. I apologize for such a scattered narrative, but my first clear memories of White Hall do not come until a week or so later.

The first of these is sitting in my cell. They called it a ‘seclusion chamber’. It was up in a tower, not as tall as the nursery or staff towers, but high enough to always be freezing. My cell could be reached by an elevator that could only be operated from the bottom of the shaft. There were also the sounds that echoed up from the ground floor. I am somewhat proud to say that I don’t scare easily, but the noises… the sobbing was easy to block out after a while, but every so often there would be screams. Usually it was a woman’s voice, faint but grating, or occasionally it would be a man, yelling incoherently. However, I quickly adjusted to my new surroundings, and eventually I grew less wary of the screaming and moaning. What I found truly unsettling was that sometimes I could hear the softest strains of music. I was never sure if I was really hearing it, or if I had really gone mad, seeing as I had no one to ask whether they heard the music as well. I was left alone for some time, the only company I had being the orderly that brought food twice a day and any rats that ran through.

I learned quickly to dislike the orderlies, but my distaste for them paled in comparison to what I felt for a man called Sandbridge. He came up the elevator one day with a hulking orderly who hovered by the elevator with a vacant look on his face. He called me by that name. Edan. The dead name I had carried for nine years had been burned away like my skin. I never answered him while he called me that. It upset him to know I was ignoring him, which amused me to no end. After a while he began referring to me as Number one, my patient number. No. 1. As he spoke to me he took notes and I was pleased to see I could remain lucid throughout the whole conversation. I spoke pleasantly and calmly of my killings. I asked politely about the women who looked at me in my cage downstairs (Their names were Sorrel and Lovewell.) Inside I was swallowing my panic. I still wasn’t sure of where I was, and I would’ve said anything to get out of the cell. Outside I was so collected I unnerved myself. Ever the dual personality.

Sandbridge seemed pleased when he left with the orderly. I leaned back against my cell wall. There were manacles hung on the wall opposite me, and I preferred to stay as far away from them as I could manage. I hated myself for pandering to that sniveling, preening man, but I needed out. The next day he returned, this time with a different orderly who was no less vapid than the first. I remained calm, but I was gritting my teeth. Sandbridge had a voice like nails on a chalkboard and the looks he was giving my deformed face made my hackles rise. As timidly as I could, I requested a candle or two. I behaved myself like a good little boy throughout the whole interview and lo, I was granted two candles and packet of matches in oiled paper. From one of the candles I fashioned a mask. It was a little crude, but it covered the worst of the burns on my face. I reinforced it with some cloth torn from the thin sheet I had to cover me a night. I cared little for the loss of my former appearance. My looks had always been commonplace, which served my purpose fine when I was free (‘What did the murderer look like?’ ‘Well, Officer, he had brown hair and brown eyes…’) for now I hoped it would keep stares like Sandbridge’s to a minimum. He seemed a little startled when he saw my mask, but he didn’t take it away from me. The interviewing nonsense continued for about a week. I behaved myself through gritted teeth, while managing to glean little bits of information about Sandbridge’s personal life from our conversations. I filed these little facts away in case I needed them. Never underestimate the importance of small details. Finally, after much gilding of the lily, I was brought downstairs. I must say I wasn’t expecting much, and yet the place still managed to disappoint me. Cold electric light and long winding hallways. Charming.

I was brought to the Meal Hall and seated next to a sandy haired man. I glanced surreptitiously at him. He looked me right in the eyes. He was probably about ten years my senior, and had icy blue eyes. I met his gaze coolly. Across the table from me, there was another man with a shaved head, about my age or older. He looked at me with black eyes.

“Sullivan.” He said. I stared.

“I’m Sullivan” he spoke barely over a whisper and kept glancing hastily at the orderlies’ position around the room. Nurses entered and started serving up some sort of liquidy stuff I don’t care to try and describe. “Who are you?”

“I’m number one.” I answered flatly.

“Ah. So you’re the new Matthew.” The sandy haired man said.

“Who was Matthew?” I asked.

“The bloke who used to be in number one. He’s dead now.” Sullivan mimed a noose being put around his neck and gave the invisible rope a jerk, his tongue lolled out and his hear snapped to the side. He grinned at me. “If you just call yourself Number One, then you must be Matthew.”

“Agreed.” Said the sandy haired man dully.

“Hmmm. You have a point.” I poked at the so-called ‘soup’ with my spoon (The only utensil we were ever given) seeing if it would get annoyed. “But there is a flaw in your logic. I am I, and I’m sure Matthew would disagree, wherever he is. Would you be willing to entertain the possibility that I am someone new? Someone from outside, perhaps?”

“Would you listen to this?” Sullivan asked the others incredulously. “What are you, some kind of lord’s son?”

“Hardly.” I scoffed, taking and experimental bite of the ‘soup’.

“Good God, Sullivan.” The sandy haired man muttered and shook his head. “So Number One, mister No One… oops, you better wait ‘til that cools a mite.” He added quickly as I choked on the boiling hot soup. “Let’s spare ourselves the cryptic introductions. There’s enough mysticism and nonsense here as it is. Who are you?”

“I’m… the Tallow Man.”

“The ‘Tallow Man’?” said a very thin man sitting next to Sullivan “I d-don’t follow…”

“You wouldn’t” hissed Sullivan

“Shut it.” Snapped the thin man “ Look, T-Tallow Man or… No One, or who-o ever you’r-re sup-posed to be, we don’t g-get the t-tribune hereabouts. You have-ve to ac.. accom...odate us.”

“I killed people.” I said plainly “Twenty-seven of them over a period of nine years.” No point in defending my innocence now. Not to these fellows at least. The insane have an uncanny knack for knowing when someone is lying.

“Impressive. I only got four.” Said the sandy haired man as he straightened his tunic for what had to be the fifth time.

“T-two for me.” Said the thin man, wetting his lips with his tongue.

“None of your damn business.” Hissed Sullivan.

“That’s fine. So, this is all very civilized and sane, but who are you and you?” I said as calmly as I could, pointing at the thin man and the sandy haired man in turn.

“Mackenzie Gun-t-ter.” Said the thin man. “Call m-me Gourmet.” I raised an eyebrow under my mask, though I supposed I had very little room to talk seeing as I was newly dubbed ‘No One’.

“I’m the Watcher.” Said the sandy haired man stiffly, carefully moving his spoon a modicum to the right.

“What do you watch?”

“People and stars. People have stars in their eyes.” He said slowly.

The four of us sat in silence. I felt strange. These people were insane, and I didn’t mind them at all. They hadn’t even asked about my mask, they just took it as a given. I poked at the soup a bit more, until I swear I heard it growl, and dropped my spoon.

“Eat it.” Said Watcher. “This is the best we’ve gotten all week.” With a slight grimace, I took his advice. I ate in silence, noting how the stuff wasn’t as bad as long as I didn’t look at it, and occupied my eyes by examining and memorizing the layout of the Meal Hall. There were four long tables in the large room, but there were only eight of us eating. Two orderlies were posted at each of the three exits (North, South, and East.) There was a large cage-like structure in the center of the room, but it was empty. We were seated in the northeast corner of the room, and opposite us in the southwest corner were seated four women. Unlike us, they were having a quiet, hissy conversation. One of them had an urn in her lap. Sullivan caught me looking and gave a bark of laughter.

“Ah, the ladies.” He snickered. “Don’t bother. They’re frigid, not that you’d have a chance, what with all the separation of the sexes.”

“Nothing so crude” I couldn’t resist a sneer. “Just curious-“

“Oh, I bet you are.” Interrupted Sullivan with a leer.

“Shut the hell up, Sul.” Snapped Watcher. “They don’t mix us much, I’m afraid, except for in the exercise yard or the lounge. The one with the urn is Florence.”

“Why does she carry the urn?”

“It’s-s her baby.” Said Gourmet. I nodded. If she said it was her baby, it was her baby.

“The little blonde one is Frederika. She used to be a dancer at the Opera House. Or at least that what she says. Don’t quite know how she ended up here at Shalebridge. Mostly she’s just an awful nag.” Shalebridge. Finally, I knew where I was. But the Shalebridge Cradle was an orphanage. What was I doing there? True, I had been declared mad, but why would they put the criminally insane alongside young children? Idiots.

“The red-head is Moth. She likes to play with fire.” Inwardly I groaned. Just what I needed. A Fire Lighter.

“She’s an idiot.” Piped Sullivan.

“Shut your mouth.” Watcher said without conviction “The young one is Cordelia Pins.” I eyed the girl. She looked to be about 14, and had a mass of dark hair. “She likes birds.” He added.

“Likes to eat them.” Added Sullivan. “By the by, where the hell is Cogs?”

“P-probably down in the treat-t-t-men-t-t rooms.”

“Traitor.” Snarled Sullivan. “If he’d just leave the damn things alone, there’d be a lot less trouble for us.”

“Heh, but it gives him s-something to do at-t least.” Muttered Gourmet.

“Cogs was clockmaker.” Explained Watcher. “They let him fix the shock therapy chair. He says he trying to break it so it looks like it’s working, but really isn’t, so all we’d have to do is twitch and shiver and get off scot-free.” Shock Therapy. I didn’t like the sound of it.

“He’s a little liar.” Growled Sullivan. “A rat bastard little-“

“Shock Therapy?” I interrupted, intrigued. The three men looked at me pityingly. I almost snarled, but an orderly was at my shoulder, saying it was time to go back to my ‘room’.

I don’t suppose I’ll ever know who my fellow patients really were. Despite the ‘close quarters’ as Watcher put it, it was no secret that each of us was extremely wary of everyone else. Watcher was polite to everyone, and was probably the most popular, if you want to put in those terms. Still, he kept his dry distance. Sullivan seemed to invite discord, with his vulgar mannerisms and curt attitude. The only times he was ever silent for more than a few moments was whenever he was in the morgue. He had some morbid fascination with the place that I don’t really want to fathom. Gourmet was in a constant state of nerves that I found to be very trying, though he occasionally had something intelligent to say. The elusive Cogs, whose given name I later learned was ‘Abraham’ (I can see why he favored being called ‘Cogs’), seemed to switch back and forth from an almost childlike naiveté to a snarling, sadistic wildness. I rather liked Cogs.

The women, however… They were a unique little clan, to put it lightly. They were lead by Florence, or ‘Mama’ as she called herself, who was in a constant state of near-hysteria. Her constant accusations that I was ‘frightening the baby’ grew very old very quickly. Cordelia was in fact thirteen years old, but her mind was that of a young child. She babbled and cried and sang little nonsense songs, hardly acknowledging anyone but Frederika. Then, of course, there was the little arsonist, the Moth. I never learned what her true name was, but no matter. She probably wouldn’t recognize it anyway. She was, as Sullivan said, somewhat idiotic. The doctors called her ‘flighty’, but I say anyone without an ounce of sense and an affinity for fire is nothing short of an accident waiting to happen. And then there was Frederika the Dancer.

Frederika was… different. For starters, she was never ‘one of us’, in more ways than one. We were a fine example of the City’s cast-offs; a commoner farmer’s son, a hack artist, a camp cook, a transient laborer, an unwed mother, a half-wit, and a street urchin. Frederika was from the upper caste, by marriage if not by birth. She was a haughty brat, and made no attempt to hide her upper-crust mannerisms and habits. I suspect it was the only thing that kept her head above water, for she was not mad. A single sane soul in the company of the very worst madmen: murderers, cannibals, hysterics, and firelighters… Yet I admired her, for her tenacity, if nothing else. Despite all her highborn affectations, her blood was as unrefined as my own. Her fine manners and carefully cultivated beauty may have kept her sane, but her life was saved by that fiery will to survive, for one reason or another, that all we peasants share. Her fierce dignity was something I esteemed and hated. Over time, the others because easy enough to control, but she remained beyond the scope of my power. I despised and respected her for it. Despite this, Frederika, along with the Watcher and Cogs, became my… friends, if you want to put it that way. I was more or less in the constant company of the other men, and Frederika… well, she gave me someone to argue with, if nothing else.

I won’t burden you with all the petty details that came with daily life at Shalebridge except to say I spent long periods in a state of extreme boredom (sitting alone in my cell, being made to sit silently in the lounge with the others while that little peahen of a nurse, Lovewell, read aloud from tedious novels and books of insipid poetry), the occasional taste of freedom (a weekly half-hour in the exercise yard, eating twice a day with the other madmen), and brief yet frequent moments of pain and rage. These moments still fill me with anger when I conjure them up in my head.

‘Shock Therapy’ (according to my case study) didn’t ‘work’ on me. All it did was make me hate Sandbridge and his toadies, Ranker and Hanscombe, even more. I was strapped to a metal chair and made to endure increasingly heavy electric shocks from small probes pressed against my skin. It made my head buzz and my body convulse violently. As soon as I was able to speak I spat curses and cruel words at Sandbridge, using the tidbits of information he had told me about himself. I relished the sight of him going pale with anger as I poured out vile words against his wife and daughters. He soon had me on ‘medication’; large, tasteless pills that were hard to swallow and left me senseless for hours, hardly able to walk in a straight line. My fellows were of little help, powerless as they were. I did not blame them. But from these indignities I received inspiration. One day at mealtime, my hands were shaking almost too violently to keep a hold on the food, and Cogs whispered to me. He told me to shove the pills under my tongue and pretend to swallow. Even if the doctors checked, there would be little chance of my ruse being discovered. I did this and soon found myself with a small stash of sedatives. For a while I seriously contemplated swallowing them all, one right after the other, and thus give myself some peace. It wasn’t the first time I’d considered suicide while confined in that wretched cell of mine, but the more devious and inventive part of myself had other plans.

Gourmet was a well-behaved patient, and given several privileges as a result. He had free run of White Hall as long as the staff was around. I convinced him to help me in my plan. I ground up the pills (there were at least seven or eight) and hid the dirt colored powder in the hem of my sleeve. During the morning mealtime, I requested to go to the lavatory. I had been playing my good boy card over the last few days, so the staff (imbeciles!) let me go as long as Mackenzie (they never called him Gourmet) went with me. We behaved ourselves all the way, but we made a side trip to the kitchens. There were two full coffee cups and I heard Sorrel’s and Lovewell’s approaching voices and dumped the powder in the cups. With any luck they belonged to my two least favorite nurses.  
I tucked myself into the shadow between the wall and a table laden with measuring utensils.

“Go back, Gourmet.”

“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed. I hadn’t told him about this.

“You’ll see. Just go back.” He gave me a fleeting, panicked look and fled. I took a knife from the table beside me and waited.

By the time I finished with them, Sorrel was dead and Lovewell wouldn’t be flaunting her pretty little face anywhere anymore. They collapsed like sacks of potatoes moments after they drank the poisoned coffee. Sorrel went cold pretty quickly, but Lovewell just went limp, but she was alive and awake. I barricaded both doors while she watched me with those damn brown doe eyes of hers. She was so full of fear that I could smell it on her. By the time orderlies broke through I had discovered that Beeswax plundered from the kitchen cabinets was a fine substitute for tallow.

My little escapade earned me a solid month in my seclusion chamber. The food that was brought to me had sand in it, or sometimes didn’t come at all. I knew they were talking seriously about giving me the ‘Three Knocks’. An operation on one’s brain that left one a drooling, useless husk of a person. I was hungry, chained to a wall, and potentially facing a fate worse than death, but I didn’t care. In that short while, I had my life back. I had my power and my dignity. I could have half of my brain sliced away and be happy knowing I had had those last moments of freedom. But… no. Apparently I was too valuable a ‘learning tool’ to Doctor Sandbridge. The man was really determined to crack me now.

As I said, it took them a whole month to decide what to do with me, and after that I was kept up in my cell for two weeks while Sandbridge tried to pry me open. When I was finally released, I was welcomed back with open arms. I was King No One now. I was one of the younger patients, but the other residents, even Watcher, the eldest, began to see me differently. I had planted the idea that they could fight back against those who would chain them like whipped dogs. It was a strange sort of camaraderie. I’m sure we would not have gotten on so well in the outside world. We might have even detested each other, but for now we were allied against a larger menace.

I was enjoying my newfound celebrity status quite thoroughly. Of course, the staff was now outwardly hostile to me instead of just coldly officious, which made my life a bit more difficult, but I hardly cared. I was liked by those who mattered. The staff didn’t matter, seeing as I would rid myself of them soon enough. Yes, the gears of my mind were already turning. I pondered away the hours in my cell over how I could do it. I knew I couldn’t have just gone on a killing spree, no matter how much I might have wanted to. I was only one man, after all… but I had a small regiment of willing helpers. I just needed the opportune moment…

The first piece to my puzzle fell into place one afternoon in the exercise yard. I was staring at my feet, trying to keep the painful light out of my eyes, when I saw a pair of smaller, bare feet emerge into my field of vision. I looked up and saw the bright green eyes and flaming hair of the Moth, the little firefly. I am not very tall, but she was still a full head shorter than me. She stared at me in a way that made me twitch in irritation. She was just… looking at me. In the months that I had been at Shalebridge, the Moth had scarcely spoken two words to me. All of the women, save for Frederika, tended to avoid me. What could she want now? I didn’t have to wonder very long, as she stood on her toes and kissed me swiftly, before running off to the other women, who were all pretending not to have seen (except for Frederika, who was giggling insanely). I’ll never understand why females always travel in packs. I could hear Sullivan snickering at me, so I indulged in a childish whim and tossed a dirt clod at him, and was promptly hauled out of the yard and back up to my cell.

I was aware of sex. More than aware. But the Moth’s actions gave me pause. So, I had an admirer now, did I? The thought made me uncomfortable, but I realized that I could use this to my advantage. Moth was… easily bent, even then. She was young, mad, and infatuated. I stored the information away until I needed it.

Then there was that little girl… Lauryl, I think her name was, or at least that’s what Watcher said her name was. I only met her once, but I could see why Watcher favored her portrait over all his others. She was very quiet and had a natural stillness to her. Watcher found her wandering around the meal hall (the orphans often wandered into our wing due to the mediocre attentions of Matron Arthur and her lackeys), and asked if she wanted her picture painted. I was with him when he was painting the portrait. I had managed to elude my constant escort for the moment and sat in the corner of Watcher’s cell. I could smell the fear on the little girl, but she didn’t so much as quiver. I have never been overly fond of children, but I wanted to talk to her. She reminded me of… something I can’t remember anymore. Still, I kept my peace. Watcher, on the other hand, was in a veritable frenzy. His brush flew across the canvas, creating masses of shadows that slowly began to resemble the girl. He was actually giggling as he put the finishing touches on the portrait. I was used to his sometimes-manic disposition, but the little girl’s eyes glittered with fear. I felt a twinge of malice in me; an almost uncontrollable urge to make her move. Her utter, utter quietness made my blood boil, though I cannot say why. I wanted to push her, scream at her, hurt her, but I sat hunched in the corner. I forced my hands to say at my side and kept my gaze locked on her. She didn’t dare look at me, but I knew she was very much aware of my presence. Poor little thing, trapped between one madman who would tear her to shreds if she so much as breathed too loud, and another madman who would do anything to make her flinch. Such is my thirst for power, I’m afraid.

It’s odd how I can look back on it now. I can safely say I am telling you the entire truth of what happened. My memories of the events I have set forth are like paintings. Nothing is omitted, nothing is added. It’s almost if I’m telling someone else’s story, instead of my own. But I’m sure you are far more interested in our little revolution than the speculations of an aging loony.

Lauryl was the key. If I believed in that sort of thing I would send prayers of thanks to her. Yes, that little girl and her demise is what set in motion all that follows here. She was murdered… no, perhaps ‘murdered’ isn’t the right word. She was slaughtered. I know. I saw it.

It was late in the evening. I was in a foul mood and slipped away from my escort just to annoy them. It was the first time I had ever gotten past the lockdown gate, so I decided to hide up in the attic to gloat and see how long it would take them to find me. There were, naturally, many crates and boxes, so I choose a particularly large one and hid behind it. I was settling down for a nice long wait when the door opened. I pushed myself further into my little shadow, but it wasn’t the staff. It was Lauryl and another child: a mousy looking boy she called… David, or Dill, or ...something. The boy isn’t important. What happened next is. They were playing a hiding game. Lauryl turned towards the support beam in the center of the room and closed her eyes. As she began to the count the boy ran gleefully to find a hiding place. I was worried that, in their play, I would be discovered, but thankfully he hid on the other side of the room. That’s when I saw I saw It.

It appeared from nothing. Not even a ‘poof!’ or a cloud of smoke heralded Its arrival. It was huge, an ogre made of dripping, pestilent flesh and many staring eyes. The thing was silent as It moved towards the girl and reached two monstrous claws towards her. The thing gave a low laugh and the girl turned. She turned a sick green color and made an odd choking sound. The thing didn’t stop her as she tried to make a run for the door. I watched in fascinated horror as It approached her. The girl was too terrified to scream but she hammered on the door so hard her fists began to bleed, small whimpering sounds escaping her. The thing… even I, who have been the cause of such gore as would sicken a coroner, can’t fully describe what It did to her. It ripped at her with seemingly random and wild movements, but the girl’s skin came off as neatly as anything, almost all in one piece. The thing held the skin in one claw and gave the girl’s flayed body a contemptuous kick.

“I’ll be back for you.” It snarled. I must have made some kind of sound because it turned to me and looked me in the eyes. It’s face was like… it was the face of a hideous old woman, tacked onto the horrendous body like a brooch. It smiled at me and raised Its hand as though in salute, and then It was gone.

There was no sound save for my own shallow breathing and the sound of the boy keening piteously from wherever he was hiding. I crept silently through the maze of boxes, making sure the boy hadn’t seen me. The door opened easily under my hand. As I was about the leave, my bare foot touched something soft. I looked down and saw the little girl’s nightdress, torn in many places and splattered with blood. Before I knew what I was doing, I stuffed it down the front of my tunic and scurried out of the attic, leaving the door open behind me. In a zombie-like state, I snuck back to White Hall, the deep shadows of night aiding my return. It seemed the staff was completely unaware of what had happened upstairs and was still in an uproar over my own whereabouts. Normally I would have laughed at how they ran to and fro, fretting about where the murderous fiend had gotten, but after seeing what I had seen, my cell seemed like a comforting haven to me. I ran, literally, into the unattended Watcher just outside the Meal Hall. Hurriedly, I pulled out Lauryl’s nightdress and shoved it into his hands.

“King, what the hell is this?” He hissed, grabbing my arm as I tried to make a dash for my elevator.

“It’s a nightgown. Let go.” I snapped, clawing at his hand.

“I can see it’s a nightgown. I filthy, bloody, nightgown. Why the bloody hell are you giving it to me?” He gave me a shake, and I almost struck out at him.

“To remember your little girl by.” I said through my teeth. Watcher’s eyes went very wide and he released my arm. He backed away from me and I knew what he was thinking. I showed him my hands. “It wasn’t me.” I said, “I swear to you I didn’t touch her.” Watcher locked his icy eyes onto my own dark ones. “I swear.” I repeated. He looked hard at me. I stiffened under the intense scrutiny but didn’t avert my gaze. Finally he nodded and stowed the nightdress away in his tunic.

“I believe you.” He said in a hushed voice “And I know you’re plotting something.” He left me then and I, feeling very drained, stepped out into the Meal Hall and yelled, “I’m here!” Two orderlies quickly lay hold of me and I was returned to my cell. I was very, very tired and felt like I had aged ten years, but I didn’t sleep that night. As Watcher had predicted, I plotted.

The next morning all nine of us were hauled out of bed early and our cells were searched. It didn’t take the staff long to find the nightdress that Watcher had hidden under his mattress. They swiftly took him away. He gave me a pointed glance as he loudly protested his innocence, saying that he had merely found the nightdress. At breakfast in the Meal Hall the orderlies and nurses tried to put up a façade of normalcy, but our tables were already buzzing with the news. Watcher was quite the popular madman, and his comrades did not take his sudden removal lightly. They turned to me for answers.

“He didn’t do it. We all know he’s innocent. The staff knows he’s innocent.” I told them in the exercise yard later that day “They just don’t gave half a damn. They just want to get rid of him. First they give Watcher the three knocks… then, who can say? Any one of us could be next.” They all agreed fervently. It took a little persuading to get them to follow my plan, but in the end, they were more than willing. The Moth was almost desperate to do as I told her.

You can imagine what my plan was, and you know the outcome. We staged a riot in the Meal Hall a few days later, allowing he Moth the time to get her hands on some fuel and to start the fire at the base of the staff tower. The fire was pretty isolated, racing up the staff tower and spreading to the Nursery rather quickly. Almost anything elevated was blazing within minutes. While the Moth pulled up a chair to watch the staff tower and it’s inhabitants burn to ashes, the rest of us… well, let me just say we had our fun. It was glorious. We freed watcher from where he had been locked up in the storm cellar and he happily joined us in our wet and scarlet sport. Unfortunately, we were pushed back behind the lockdown gate, and those who could escaped us, but it hardly mattered. We had won the crusade.

What followed was happy delirium. I became a King in action and not just in name. We lived in our tiny world, relishing our freedom and believing our bliss would last forever. It wasn’t until the various chemical machinations I had created failed to break down the lockdown gate that we began to get worried. Food ran low, and we were forced to eat what was left of the bodies. Predictably, several of us fell ill, but the real trouble came with the dreams. At first it was only Cordelia who had them, and I dismissed at as nothing. But before long, Sullivan reported odd dreams as well.

I have no doubt that if Cordelia hasn’t died yet, she will very soon. She had locked herself in her cell with her birds and will not answer to anyone. Frederika still plays her records on her old viktrola, but she no longer dances like she used to. She simply sits on the floor, staring into the empty air. Sullivan rarely leaves the Morgue, and I… yesterday I awoke on the floor on the Shock Treatment room, my hands bruised and bloody, and I cannot remember how I got there…


End file.
